


Post-Hurt

by redscout



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, M/M, POV Second Person, both perspectives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 08:22:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9170614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscout/pseuds/redscout
Summary: It's one thing to see a loved one die, but it's something else entirely to see them die and then come back from the dead.





	1. He Taught You

**Author's Note:**

> pt 1/4 of scouts pov  
> an: all of these chapters seem much longer on my phone notes

"Grip it. With the fingers." You don't understand why he's looking at you so hard, like it's utterly and completely imperitive that this be something you get down, of your own accord or not. It's already making you frustrated-- you _can't_ grip it. They don't even work properly.

"No, curl, _curl._ Curl 'em."

And you're about to follow his directions, until his hands rest on yours again, and it sends a chill up your spine because it's easy to forget that your nerve endings don't really work all that properly-- the heat of his hands is kind of confusing. Not that you're genuinely aware of the fact that you've forgotten that. It's entirely foreign. And you look up at him because of this, puzzled, and your facial expression deepens when he doesn't acknowledge you. But his hands curl against yours, and form a shape around the handle of this... thing. You know it's dangerous. You're not sure what to do with it, but you grunt in a sort of acknowledgement, and he lets go of you.

"There ya go."

Gently, you try to lift it, and inspect that you're able with minimal effort. And it takes you a second to realize this, and when you do, you smile at him. But something in your nerves fails momentarily again, and your wrist shifts slightly, and your fingers let go. It doesn't really make any sense-- you were almost sure you had it. But you snarl at the item when it drops to the ground, and don't bother trying again. He's staring at your face again.

"Elliot. Try again."

"No," you say, finally. _Name_ , you remind yourself. _Elliot. Okay_. But you don't want to lift it up again. Using your hands is difficult and tiresome, but he doesn't let you argue this point; his hand is already nudging your digits towards the handle of the thing again. "No," you say again-- _it's pointless!_ But you can seldom think that-- saying it was likely out of the question. And of course, he wraps his hand around yours again.

"Both hands." And you bother listening this time-- you figure maybe he'll give up soon enough, figure out that you think it's dumb and pointless when you have claws and teeth. But for the time being you do play his game, and all nine of your fingers gradually wrap around the handle. But you feel the same shift in your wrist again, and give up not two seconds later, before it can even drop. It isn't proper, and it's stupid, and frankly, you don't like it. You don't remember why you know it isn't right, but you dislike it even more because of that.

"Can't do it," leaves your lips in a sort of gargle, a growl at the fact that he thought it was a good idea to try and teach you this. It confuses you when he sighs, though, and removes the item from your hands without asking first. He moves closer to you, though, and you move closer too, because that's what feels right. In a sort of ask, you look at him, but he doesn't meet your gaze.

"Almost bed time, love." And you know what this means-- love is good. Love is a nickname for your name, Elliot, and it means that he likes you. And you suppose that's good-- he says that sometimes. I love you. You haven't got it on your tongue yet. You practice, though, sometimes at night, when nobody else is around. But that thought makes you remember to scoot away-- you don't like bed time. Being alone with no light and warmth is a norm, but it doesn't mean you appreciate it, especially when he's with you half the day. "I know," he starts, probably in acknowledging that you know what that means. "But it's safer. For everybody." You growl lowly when you consider this again. You couldn't make out why it was safer to keep you outside when you're smart, smarter than you should be, anyway, and could choose whether or not you wanted to bite his friends. You didn't really like them much.

It's a while, but finally, the question comes to consideration, and you ask, tenderly; "Me?" And you stare at him to watch him think.

He seems even quieter to you like this, as he's usually quiet to begin with. Quieter than the others, maybe. He has patience with you, and you appreciate that, silently. It's difficult, even you think that. And he seems to understand that.

"...Yes, baby," he says, and you know that's another nickname for your name, Elliot. "You could wander off, or hurt yourself." And you're not sure how either of those things could happen. Perhaps the wandering off-- it was something you were good at, you think, if maybe he didn't use the method he did to protect you. Or, you're pretty sure it's protection. He said so, anyway, so it only made sense. He sighs again when you say nothing, and then stands up, and you know then that it's time to go.

"Come on, then." And after he stands up, you follow suit, and you have to use his arm to steady yourself because sometimes you don't really trust your legs-- really, you shuffle more than walk sometimes. It's no difference to you. You lick your lips gently when you remember that you haven't eaten today. You wonder if it's really remembering, other than some kind of automatic thought. You wouldn't use those big words, though. But you glance over at him because you feel his eyes on you, and it breaks your train of thought briefly. You feel like the right thing to do is show your teeth again-- so you do smile, and he smiles back at you.

Every night for the past three weeks he's chained you to the side of the vehicle that you all ride in if there's a reason to move, and it's frustrating. You don't like not being able to move. Sometimes you have to twitch, and you can't. But he cuffs you up for the night, and that's it. He moves away from you now. It's different.

"Good night," you hear, and you're pretty sure that's what you say when people go to sleep. You don't sleep, but you know he does, so you answer, and it doesn't really sound like any words, but he doesn't use the word that makes you repeat things-- _what?_ \-- so you're fairly sure he understood you. He smiles at you again, but then closes the door. And it takes you 'til the last second to try and form those words again-- quietly, of course, and to yourself. He was going to bed.

"...Love, y'." _Love you_. You repeat it in your head. But you freeze gently when you hear a reply-- he was still paying attention to you.

"Love you, too."


	2. You Taught Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's one thing to see a loved one die, but it's something else entirely to see them die and then come back from the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pt 1/4 of snipers pov  
> same story, different person :^)

"Grip it. With the fingers."

He was always gentle. Ruthless, in the end, yes, but with his hands, he was outstandingly dexterous, careful even when he didn't know how to be, when being soft and calm was often out of the question-- _gentle_. You never really let go of that, and sometimes you manage to forget that his hands aren't warm anymore.

"No, curl, _curl_. Curl 'em."

His progress halts the moment you rest your own hands on his ice cold digits, and out of the corner of your eye, you can see him look at you, either in confusion, or caution. You don't turn your attention away from his hand, and slowly, you curl yours around his fingers, which makes him slowly but surely follow suit. The wet grunt that resounds from the back of his throat tells you he's got it, and you carefully take your hand away from his.

"There ya go."

He lifts the pistol, and flashes the drabby smile at you-- it wasn't always drabby and you have to remind yourself of that. In a second, however, his wrist shifts, and the gun drops to the dirt, leaving him dejected near immediately. You almost smile in fondly remembering how good he was at expressing himself. Even now, he was snarling in a way you can almost remember. But you can see his eyes, and it hits you, again, for the fifth time this week.

_Your boyfriend is dead._

"Elliot. Try again."

"No." You move his hand again, and grip it gently. And it rests there for a moment, before you set it on the handle of the gun. "No," he repeats, but you persist, and wrap your digits around his own again.

"Both hands." And he listens to you, gradually, moving all nine phalanges around the pistol again. It disheartens you to see that he gives up again in a minute, the gun loose in his fingers-- he, of all people, would know what a gun feels like, and you're not sure if it's some of his remaining brainpower telling him it isn't correct.

"Can't do it," he mutters in a growl, and you can tell by the snarl that graces his features now that he's finished for tonight. With a sigh, you move the pistol to the side, and gently move closer into him. He shifts next to you almost naturally, and you know he's looking at you, but you can't look him in the eyes anymore. They're his eyes, yes. But they're not _him._

"Almost bed time, love." It's a minute before he shifts again, but it's away from you. Your arm wraps around his shoulders to pull him closer again, and you continue. "I know. But it's safer. For everybody." He grumbles for a second, and then is quiet, and both of you stare at the dying fire embers for a time that seems long.

And it's forever before you hear him ask, tenderly; "Me?" And it makes you think for a minute before you answer.

You can't tell him he is a threat. Not yet. He doesn't remember his own tendencies to lash out, doesn't remember why your arms are bandaged up, doesn't remember why you point a gun at him sometimes. He isn't the brightest, and you can't blame him-- like he always says, _rottin'_. But you can't let him know yet that he's dangerous, that one wrong move could send him to the grave, for good. You can't tell him that your partners are afraid of him, are already to point a gun at him the moment he steps out of line. And worst of all, you can't tell him that _you're_ afraid.

 _Pitiful_.

"...Yes, baby. You could wander off, or hurt yourself." He seems at ease with this answer, and you sigh out, and stand slowly. "Come on, then."

And at your motion, he stands too, steadying himself with your arm. You see him lick his lips briefly, but then he looks at you, and you both meet eyes for the first time in an eternity. It's saddening, but when he smiles again, with his bloody, unclean teeth that he's so confident in, you force yourself to smile back. Despite it all, you love him. And you regret your own actions that so brutally ruined his life.

It's every night for the past 3 weeks-- well, the weeks he's been trusting in you, anyway-- he's been chained to the side of your group's trailer, by the wrists and ankles. And sometimes at night you can hear him rattle the chains, or hear the way his demeanor goes from gentle to inhuman, violent, in an instant. It's scary, but you have to remind yourself that's part of the job.

"Good night," you mutter his direction, stepping towards the door. And he responds, at first with a light grunt, but eventually, his own dribbling rendition of something akin to good night. And you throw him one last little grin before disappearing behind the RV door. However, one last unusual sound meets your ears before you go fully.

"...Love, y'." And you stop, and close your eyes gently.

"Love you, too."


	3. He Told You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's one thing to see a loved one die, but it's something else entirely to see them die and then come back from the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pt 2/4 of scouts pov

You don't remember it very well at all.

He's told you the story a few times now, but each time it is hazy to you-- each time he describes how you looked and acted and it's unfathomable to you. You were not him, and this person was not you. You're not sure why you're thinking about it now; it's night time and you are alone, and you think perhaps this is what you will do tonight.

Reminiscing is out of the question because you don't remember. But you try and think about it-- he said that you were happy, that you smiled at him a lot. And he said that you were also confident, and you're barely sure what that means, but you know his eyes sparkle when he says it, so it's got to be good.

He said the shirt you always wear is the shirt you died in-- you're not so sure why Opossum My Possum is funny, because frankly, it doesn't make any sense. But he also said that you died because you yourself made the decision to protect your party, which is odd to you because being alive is a now foreign concept and you wouldn't know what it feels like to have them hunt you all down in the first place.

Sometimes when you dig enough you can make out certain things-- words, especially. Words like _thunder_ , or _move_. You're not sure what either of those have anything to do with you dying, but you know them.

You shake the chains around your wrists gently and close your eyes, attempting to piece it together again.

You smiled at him first, he said. He said it was a nice day, and everybody was happy, maybe a little tired. You were sitting in the front with him and you stuck your head out the window and sang a song that you really liked. You remember now, thunder was in that song, he told you that. And he said that it wasn't until dinner that he figured out they were out of food, but he kept reiterating that you were smiling at him and he was smiling at you. You think maybe he was saying that mostly for himself.

You remember he said that you all had to go out and look for food together when you got to the next closest town, because that's how the system worked-- he said you called it ride together, die together, and you think that's pretty neat. Your mouth won't make the sounds though-- mostly just a gargled mass of vowels-- but you know the phrase is there and that's what counts. Every time you get to that part, though, it puzzles you. If ride together, die together was the motto, how were you the only victim? It didn't stick for long; it never did.

Sometimes he talks about you a lot. How your voice sounded and what you liked to do and wear and say and be. And it always feels foreign because you know the person he's describing isn't you. He always says you went by Scout-- another nickname for your name, Elliot-- and that you said things in a way that made you sound like you were from Boston. And he always corrected himself here-- you were from Boston. But you realize quickly you're getting distracted again. Your name is not Scout.

He said that all of you rushed into the supermarket together, armed and ready to gather food, but there was a whole hoard of walkers in the middle, so you never got far. And he said when the walkers started to close in, you decided to man up, and grab the shotgun-- that is the long, big gun, which is loud and constantly dangerous. You don't like it much-- and tell the others to grab what they could and get out. And he always gets quiet when he describes how he tried to stop you, and how stubborn you were about saving them. He says he saw you kill a good many of them, and they all had escaped back to the van, but you never came back. And eventually, they went looking, and that's when they first found you, outside of the trailer and still nearly completely feral. He says you aren't completely dead, and you don't know how to take that sometimes.

He's said sacrifice to you a few times now, and you think you know what it means. Doing things for other people was an involved concept, but past that, you're still not entirely sure. He says it's what you did to save them, and he's thankful that you were still strong even after they'd overpowered you. And he always stops there, and moves the conversation along. You don't like the story much, but you can pay attention. It's just odd to think things about your own death, you suppose.

You zone back into the quiet of the nighttime around you, and get the hazy images of a smiling man out of your head. That isn't you, you remind yourself, wondering why Kelly was always so fascinated with his existence.

You stare at what little grass you can make out in the dark below you, and listen intently to the sounds of the crickets. The wind blows gently, and you think maybe you'll tell yourself the story again, the way he always tells you.


	4. You Told Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's one thing to see a loved one die, but it's something else entirely to see them die and then come back from the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pt 2/4 of snipers pov

You can remember it like it was yesterday.

He's smiling at you, and it's confident, and it's beautiful, and he looks ready for action. Maybe a little bit weary, but all of you were, at the time. And you know he _only_ made excuses to ride in the front with you because he gets _carsick_ or something.

But you were okay with that.

He stuck his head out the window, nearly with an air of caution, but you knew he was too reckless to truly consider the consequences of this. It makes you smile, looking at the way he's enjoying the roadway wind, and you reach over to turn up the radio lazily. In a second, you hear it-- you know he loves this song.

" _THUN-DER!_ "

And you hear the rest of your party mutter something from the back, but you don't let it bother you, not right now. It had been a good day. Not a single walker encounter since 8 a.m., and it was nearing dinner time already. It hadn't occurred to you at the time, but all of you were out of food, really. There were scraps, of course, but nothing to be made a meal out of, and you were hungry. You figured the rest of them were pretty hungry, too.

But then again, you didn't _know_ you were out of food. And that's why it was your fault.

"So, nearin' 'round six, how's about we stop for dinner soon." And the grumbled response, though positive, that greets your ears tells you that's a relatively good plan. And he looks over at you because you know you've smiled, and he noticed this time, but he smiles back at you. And you actually bother to take your hand off the wheel and hold his, because today is a good day, and the apocalypse isn't so bad.

It's 20 minutes that you all pull over into a grassy knol significantly north of Teufort, and you know this by the sign on the road-- it's impossible to make out where it lead, but you know it's far away from that hell hole. And when the RV has stopped and you're all circled around the little table in the trailer part of your vehicle, Dick breaks the news that they couldn't find anything.

"What?"

"Scraps, maybe. A can. Not two. Won't do."

"I didn't realize we were out," you blurt out absent-mindedly, and then turn back to face the windshield. "...Er, not an issue. Ain't far from a town. There ought'a be supplies left, thinkin'."

There's a general mumble of agreement, and everybody climbs back into their places slowly. And before you get the time to start it up again, he shifts into your arm, and leans directly on you.

"I'm sorry," you speak before thinking again, but he doesn't look angry, or anything like that. He's smiling at you again.

"Ain't an issue. I can wait. It's a'right."

And with that, you all start moving again, wasting nearly half an hour of time before finally pulling into the little town. It looked abandoned, but not totally destroyed, and when you stopped, all of you were on guard. There was no physical sign of walkers around, but towns were the worst-- it was always wise to be on guard, and on guard you were.

"Who's turn was it?" And before you can finish your sentence, Elliot's hand shoots up.

"Me, it was Scout's turn." You smile gently at his enthusiasm, and then nod at the shotgun. It didn't occur to you anything could ever go wrong-- after all, he was dexterous, and he knew how to handle guns, and especially, get the fuck out of there if something went sour.

"We'll do a little lookin' of our own, then," Dick adds quietly, eying your boyfriend in a way that calms you down slightly.

"Break!" And then you're all grabbing weapons, equipping your person, and it moves a little fast for you-- it's odd, but it goes by quick. And Elliot moves further into the town, while you all patrol the edge, try to keep him in sight, warn him of anything. But you can see even by the way he runs in that he's ready, he's confident.

It's maybe an hour before you hear from him again, and truth be told, you were getting kind of nervous. Not that you'd admit that. But he's running, and he's not smiling, and it puts you on alert, and you actually do start to worry. The backpack about his shoulders looks heavier, but so does he, panting hard, holding his arm--

"Hey, what--?"

"Move, go, move." And he points, so you run, and so do the others, and you hear him start to move soon. But at that point you're close enough to the trailer to pull the door open. It's the approaching darkness in the back that makes the look on his face make sense, the wounded arm rational.

You wouldn't call it a hoard, but it's a lot, and they're moving too fast to be walkers. You can't put a name on them, but the sight of them puts a weight on your chest, freezes you in your tracks, with the door wide open. And by the time that you finally come to, you're staring at the group of zombies with an ounce of fear, and you don't realize that he's not in the trailer with you.

The door is already locked when you come to see that the headcount is 3 and not 4, and it takes you knowing that zoning out for a moment caused you to believe what you wanted to happen instead of what actually did-- you _told him_ to tie his shoelaces, you _remember_ saying it-- and you can't force yourself to reopen the door because they're right there. Yes, you care, but there was always talk of sacrificing.

But you meet eyes through the window before the wrap around becomes too much for the young man outside. He's bleeding in several places, but you can barely pay attention to that. The way his blue irises glitter in anticipation, the feeling that he knows it's the end--

The guilt hits you like a punch in the face all over again, just as he's lost to the crowd--

You jolt awake quickly, sweat on your brow, the light from the moon shining through the windows in the front seat. Something in your brain immediately goes to tell you it wasn't your fault, but you've relived this too many times throughout the three weeks to know that isn't true.

It was _only_ your fault.


	5. You Hurt Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's one thing to see a loved one die, but it's something else entirely to see them die and then come back from the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pt 3/4 of scouts pov

It's eating at you quietly, and you don't want to talk about it. You rub your hands thoughtfully, over and over and over. He was telling you about something, but you got sidetracked, and it was getting hard to ignore the voice in your head that knew what it was talking about. _Hungry, hungry, hun_ \--

"Elliot."

_Name_. "Oh!" It takes you a minute to process that you were the focus of his speech, but undoubtedly do you pick up on your own name, Elliot, and glance over at him, eyes widened. Your hands pause momentarily, and you silence yourself. He has the eyebrows look on his face, the one he told you is sad. You're not sure how to take it at the moment. What was he talking about?

"I'm sorry. Are you okay?" The attention turns to you and you pause, staring at him for any indication of how you should react. But he keeps his eyes locked with yours, and slowly, you decide to nod your head. You think you're okay. You're pretty sure, anyway. Just _hungry_ , the voice repeats, and you tug on the collar of your shirt. It's weird that he's looking you right in the eyes. You knew nodding wasn't the right answer. Even when you glance away for a split second, he's looking at you.

"Hungry," you finally allow yourself to say, pressured, troubled. You go back to picking at your fingers, but you hear him sigh, and then he grabs your hand. The immediate heat that meets your palm and your fingers nearly startles you, and suddenly he's tugging you both towards the open door. You have to stop, however-- it's _yelling_ at you. _Hungry_.

You don't know what it really means to be a zombie. You aren't brainless, and at times like this, you resent this. _Hungry_. It's always hazy-- you stop, everything loses focus, and then you _lunge_.

You roll over him-- and it's a bit like watching the television, where you have another walker to blame for a fatality-- and then there's a piece of his leg in plain sight, it's right there, he's getting his bearings-- _he won't miss one of them_ \-- and your teeth snap down instantly around his exposed ankle, like a bear trap.

And the second he kicks you back is the second your violence gets the better of you, ignoring whatever he's saying, ignoring his gaze-- you lunge a second time, just as he's moving to get that _big bad shotgun_ of his-- you _never_ liked that one-- and he turns last second, which leaves you clawing down his arm. And you're about to aim for the neck, before you see he's raised the gun.

And you never see it connect with your temple, because you're out like a light.

It's quiet when you come to-- it's nearly night time already, and you're already chained up. You test them gently, and then automatically drop your head when a slap of pain hits you right in the temple. That _hurt_. You can't remember the events of earlier, and you think maybe you fell asleep for once. Or again-- perhaps you are able to sleep. But it takes you a minute to spot him, and he is asleep, in a chair, and that's not where he usually sleeps. You try to call at him, getting nothing more than some kind of growly whimper out of your throat. You want to correct him-- that's not where he sleeps. But it takes a while to get his attention.

"Oi-- oh." You stop when you realize he's looking at you now, and it almost surprises you. Waking up is a weird phenomenon, you suppose. But your attention draws to the bandage around his foot, the cut up his arm-- you think you know what this situation means, what he taught you it means, and you look away.

"Got... scary?" you ask to the air softly, and when you look back again, the way he frowns makes you want to shrink. He didn't even need to say it.

"...Yes," he answers anyway, and the pause makes you shiver to yourself. You should just go away. Scary is the code for when you hurt your partners on impulse-- he says it isn't your fault, but you've learned your place. You turn your eyes away from him again.

"...'M sorry."

"It's okay."

And when it's quiet again after that, you want to tell him no. But he starts to move, to stand, and you force yourself to look back at him. Maybe he was going to say that it wasn't okay after all. Because it wasn't, you don't think-- you hurt Kelly. But he stares at you for a second, and nears you, and he doesn't say anything.

His hands are soft when he grabs your head, and your eyes widen when he meets foreheads with you-- you don't know what this means and it's scaring you a little bit. How he weaves his hands up your hollowed cheeks and across the thin strands of your hair and then down to your neck, you're wondering if he's trying to get you to talk by comforting you in this way. Because truth be told, maybe it was nice-- you liked it when he touched you.

"'M sorry," you blurt out again, because you're sure that's what he's looking for, but he shakes his head at you.

"I'm sorry. You could've gotten hurt." And you don't know what to say because you don't know what this means-- you can see the damage you had done. How could you possibly have wounded yourself?

"Hurt you," you remind, but he furrows his eyebrows and you quiet down, simply continuing to stare. He is very close to you, and you can feel his warmth like he's the sun. And you do feel bad for hurting the sun. He still has his fingers on your neck, and it gradually makes you attempt to rest against him fully, too. But then he speaks again, and it catches you off guard a second time-- you really wish he would stop.

"I'm sorry."


	6. He Hurt You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's one thing to see a loved one die, but it's something else entirely to see them die and then come back from the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pt 3/4 of snipers pov  
> an: sorry for all the gay not great chapter titles. titling something is like, a million times harder than writing it

"Hey, look at me."

He's not paying attention to you. Playing with his hands, rubbing the stub of his missing finger. You noticed it was something new about his ticks, that he did that now. Always the hands.

"Elliot."

"Oh!" And he stops, and he looks at you. And you feel bad because he looks tired. And part of you knows he always looks tired, but it still makes you feel bad, like he hasn't gotten sleep in a solid few weeks. Which, thinking about it, you realize he probably hasn't. Zombies don't really need to sleep, you figure.

"I'm sorry. Are you okay?" He stares at you for a second, and then nods. And you stare at him a while longer, and the way that you're gazing into his eyes makes him realize that you're serious. But he's still taking a moment to tug at his shirt, and avoid answering, and you knew him to be like this back when he was living and breathing and got nervous easily. But you haven't seen him this twitchy in a while.

"Hungry," he mutters, after a while, and it makes you sigh out of your nose. Gently, you grip his hand, and lock fingers, and he seems alert at this, but when you begin to move outside, he seems to pause, and you have to turn and look at him again.

"Elliot, c'mon now." But he doesn't move, doesn't say anything. You can tell his eyes aren't even focused on anything-- they're more glazed-over than usual. And the worry that builds in your chest dissipates as you realize last second what's happening-- this time, it was short.

When he leaps at you, the two of you roll, and it causes you to cry out in surprise. You forget his speed in the heat of the moment, but you're quick to react now, avoiding his body. Truth be told, you didn't want to hurt him-- but the moment his teeth snap into your ankle is the moment that it doesn't matter for a second.

"Off! Get, _off!_ "

The kick you throw sends him backwards forcefully, and you meet eyes for a split second-- you see nothing. No soul. No humanity. Nothing but pure violent tendency. And you remind yourself you should be used to this.

When you reach for the shotgun, he lunges at you a second time, nails moving to rake down your front. You shift before he's able to wound you all the way, only to have his claws split a thin line in your arm. And then, when you twist your body a second time, you bring the gun down, hard, against the portion of his body which is nearest to you, which is, luckily, his head. And as soon as he goes limp, you scramble, lifting him up gently. Sure enough, the other two come running, guns out, pointing at Scout immediately.

"He do that?!" Dick yells at you and it catches you off guard, and you realize he's motioning to your ankle, and it takes you a moment to realize it's bleeding pretty badly. But he doesn't stop there-- he shoves with his gun, stalking up on the both of you, and instinctively, you pull the unconscious boy into your chest. "I'll kill 'im! I will! I told you this was a bad fuckin' idea, Kelly! I told--"

"Stop! Shut the _fuck up!_ " You turn almost in a way to shield the man in your arms, scowling at Dick. "Stop. We're not killin' him. It doesn't matter." And the other two step down, and help you chain him up in the next 15 minutes.

And it takes you noticing he's making noises at you to realize you'd fallen asleep after you'd settled in the lawn chair next to his little holding area.

"Oi-- oh." And he looks at you, wide-eyed. And you sort of return his stare, softly. He doesn't move for a minute, but he looks away for a split second in a way that makes you sad-- makes you wish you really had just gone to bed.

"Got... scary?" And you know what that means. And it makes you frown a little bit-- it wasn't really his fault.

"...Yes," it takes you a moment to say, and he doesn't seem much affected by it, but he won't meet your eyes now.

"...'M sorry."

"It's okay."

It's silent for a while after, and you slowly stand. He looks back up at you now, and originally, you had planned to go to bed-- but you catch sight of the welt you left on his temple, and can't help but approach him.

Gently grabbing the sides of his head, you tip your own forehead into his. And he's not sure what to make of it-- you're certain he's staring-- but it doesn't matter. You rub along his hairline, flatten out the dark strands a little, gently move around to his neck, and then rest there. And he seems at ease with this slightly.

"'M sorry," you hear again, and then slowly shake your head.

"I'm sorry. You could've gotten hurt." And he's silent for a second more.

"Hurt you." And you furrow your eyebrows at this, unsure of what to say. But it's silent again, and you both stay like this, pressed together. And you worry, silently. About when it'll get bad, and the boys'll get rash. And you'll have to remember to think like a member of the apocalypse instead of a boyfriend.

And it leaves your lips a second time, almost with a tremble on its tail; "I'm sorry."

 


	7. You Loved Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's one thing to see a loved one die, but it's something else entirely to see them die and then come back from the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pt 4/4 of scouts pov

Your hands are chained again and you're indifferent. You've still got blood on your lips and you're indifferent. It's nearing night time again and you're indifferent.

You couldn't say you were sorry in confidence. You're not sure if you ever really were. But you know he's losing sleep over it already-- you're trying to talk to him again, to get his attention, because you did want to tell him you were sorry. In fact, the worst thing would be for him to hate you. Maybe he understands that you're violent, and you get hungry. In fact, you really, _really_ hope he understands.

You hear the door open yet again, but Kelly does not emerge, and your babbling grows slightly in volume. After a moment you can tell he's sitting-- still staring at the dirt, probably. You didn't really see what the big deal was. Yes, it was acting out. But you were sick of being threatened all the time, 24/7. You'd told Kelly you didn't like the big gun. But you suppose he didn't pass the message along. Your train of thought breaks when you notice him finally approaching you.

"Kelly," you manage quietly, and he does the weird thing where he grabs you and rests his head against yours. You're pretty used to it by now. You do notice that he won't meet your gaze, but it's all of two seconds before he's uncuffing your wrists and ankles and you don't know what to say. In fact, you try to speak anyway, but a finger on your lips cuts you off.

"Come on, now. I wanna sit and watch the sun set with you." It's a long moment before you can properly take in these words, but he's already grabbed your hand, and you're moving with him. And you suppose that it's nice. But you don't know why he's not chaining you up for night time. Maybe with one less person in the party, it didn't matter so much. Maybe that's okay.

You feel bad that you're not the fastest walker on the planet, and you wonder silently why it doesn't seem to matter to him. He's staring ahead at the grassy hills ahead of you, and you suppose you are too. But you feel it right to add, "'M sorry." And you feel him glance over at you, but your facial expression hardens and you keep your eyes on where you're moving.

"It's... alright," he says after a time. You didn't think so, but maybe if he said so, it was true. You don't know what to add, so you add nothing, and it's silent for the rest of the way. A sort of calm silence, however.

Eventually, he stops you, and you both sit in the grass, looking at the sky, his arm around you. You never remembered doing this in the past, but he told you you liked it sometimes. He told you it made you sleepy. And right now you can't help but watch the shimmering orange tones in the sky, fascinated for a few seconds before he gets your attention, and you glance over at him again.

"What do you think," he asks, and then he looks away again. You look away, too. You're not entirely sure what answer he expected out of you-- you shrug.

"Gettin' dark." And he nods. That's good enough for you.

"I'm sorry we don't do this more often." You pause before you respond.

"Not y'r fault." And he seems to tense. But both of you return to the business of the sky, and you figure, after the colors have faded, you know the stars are out there-- and you point at the first one you see. And he smiles at you, so you smile too.

"Hey, I gotta do somethin'," meets your ears and breaks your focus, and you glance over just in time to see him lying down, dropping the arm from your back. And you move cautiously to follow suit, but he stops you. "I want you to show me the constellations." This makes you pause. What were those again. Oh-- the stars. In the shapes. He'd taught you those. You look back at the sky, but he grabs your shoulder again, and forces your eyes on him. "Hey. I love you. I always loved you, Elliot." And you don't know what to say to this, but you smile.

"Love you, too." And he doesn't smile back, but he points at the sky, and you suppose that's okay, your gaze following his finger tip.

"Now, when you see 'em, point 'em out to me, okay. Like I showed you." And you nod. You're good with the constellations, and you glance around. And you recognize that first one-- the three all lined up like that.

"Orion," you say enthusiastically, glancing back at him, and he nods at you.

"No, though. Jus' say 'em. I'm lookin'. You focus on that sky." And you think that's nice. It's calming, at the very least. And when you turn back to the sky again, you smile to yourself. This is good. You miss the fact that you don't do this all that often, too.

You recognize the next one you can make out-- "Aquar'us," you start, realizing you're not the best at saying things like this. "'Sa, wat-er bearer."

But he gets the point, and he says, "Yes," and you move your eyes across the sky a little bit more, scanning.

"There's, Taurus, thinkin'."

"Yes, that's there," he says in a very calm voice. It's soothing. You smile again.

"Pisces? Them's the fish." You're pretty sure that's them. There's a lot of stars, and a lot of ways the stars connect.

He corroborates your thought, adding, "Yeah, that's it," and you close your eyes momentarily, simply listening to the way his words trailed off. You think momentarily that, you finally understand how love works. You think you feel it, in this moment. You do love Kelly. You always did, too.

Finally, you point again, at one that you recognized most fervently-- "Aries," you mutter. And he says, "That's you, love." And it touches you for a moment, and you smile again.

And you don't get a chance to tell him you love him again, before all you see is the night sky, and nothing but.


	8. You Loved Him, Too

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's one thing to see a loved one die, but it's something else entirely to see them die and then come back from the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pt 4/4 of snipers pov  
> an: any of mice and men fans out there  
> extra note: thanks for reading i worked on these for a solid month sorry theyre short. ps: im gay

Your hands are dirty and you're scared. You never have to dig graves and you're scared. It's nearing night time again and you're scared.

There's still blood on the floor-- probably from your shoes, maybe-- when you close the door for a third time, but you can still hear the whimpering from outside, and still see the way the other man's gun is cocked in the corner of the little room. You never liked him and you're not willing to admit that he's right. But you look down at your hands again, and notice they're dirty. You dug a grave today.

You open the door yet again and sit down, right on the steps, with your head in your hands. And you hear his mutterings, how he almost says your name, and you force yourself to ignore it, staring at the fresh pile of dirt off to the side, marked lazily with a crudely-made cross and a photograph pinned to the top. He was your best friend, and you watched your boyfriend-- the creature that once was your boyfriend-- rip out his throat without a care in the world.

Finally, you answer to his calls, and move over towards the chained-up walker with an air of regret.

"Kelly," he mutters lowly, and you step up to him and grab him by the sides of his face again, softly. His eyes are too light for you to look into-- you can't force yourself to do that, but you do reach up gradually, and undo the cuffs around his wrists and ankles. And he seems surprised by this, and goes to say something to you, but you stop him gently.

"Come on, now. I wanna sit and watch the sun set with you." You can see on his face he's processing this, but you barely give him time, gripping one of his hands again, and locking your fingers with his in confidence. 

The walk is slow-- not that he is, but you preferred to keep it leisurely and gentle for the time being.

"'M sorry," you hear him mutter, and glance over. He's not focused on you; he's staring straight ahead, but he keeps moving. You wonder what exactly keeps his brain moving, gives him the emotions he always delivers when you know he's dead. It's a little bit scary, like a ticking time bomb-- when will they stop?

"It's... alright." You force yourself to say that-- no it wasn't. He almost seems to sense this, but he says nothing else, and continuing to walk, your hands swing, still tied with his, amiably. It reminds you of the past. Not that you went on walks often, but if you weren't talking you were moving, and you miss the strength of his grip.

Eventually, you find a portion of the open grass that looks nice and pleasant, and the two of you sit. Instinctively, you pull him into your side, and you both are frozen like this for a while, watching the sun begin to sink over the horizon. It fascinates you that he's as focused as he is, and rub up the side of his arm gently, which proposes he looks over at you, and you meet eyes again. 

"What do you think," you ask gently, after a moment, breaking the eye contact to glance up at the sky. And he follows suit, and shrugs for a minute.

"Gettin' dark." And you nod in response to this. 

"I'm sorry we don't do this more often."

"Not y'r fault." And this phrase kind of catches you off-guard, but you don't question it, and continue to watch as the last traces of orange turn to red, and then darken, gradually. And he points when the first star appears overhead, and that makes you smile.

"Hey, I gotta do somethin'." And you hesitate when he looks over at you, but you lie yourself down, and before he can follow suit, you continue. "I want you to show me the constellations." And he doesn't seem to question this, dutiful, ready to please. Before he can begin, though, you stop him one last time. "Hey. I love you. I always loved you, Elliot." And he flashes a smile back at you, and it's gentle.

"Love you, too." The clearness of his words makes your hand shake, but you point back out to the starry sky.

"Now, when you see 'em, point 'em out to me, okay. Like I showed you." And he nods again, and starts to look around, slowly. You lay all the way back, nearly behind him, and reach slowly into your pocket to grab the pistol, cold in your hands. The pistol you taught him with, you remind yourself. 

"Orion," he says, and he points, and he looks back at you, and you nod.

"No, though. Jus' say 'em. I'm lookin'. You focus on that sky." And as soon as he moves to look again, your left hand raises, with the gun in hand, and your finger settles on the trigger. You look rightly to the space where his skull meets his spine, and swallow.

"Aquar'us. 'Sa, wat-er bearer."

"Yes." Gradually, the muzzle of the gun points directly at the back of his head, but your hand shakes, and you can't do it yet. It drops to the ground, softly.

"There's, Taurus, thinkin'."

"Yes, that's there." You force yourself to bring your hand up again, and aim.

"Pieces? Them's the fish."

"Yeah, that's it." And you bring it closer to his head, and try to steady yourself.

"Aries."

"That's you, love." Your last word is shaky, but you get a grip, and pull the trigger. 

The crash of the shot rolls up and down the fields ahead, and you sigh out a breath you didn't know you were holding. Your boyfriend jars, and then settles, and slumps down immediately, and you scoot yourself away from him on instant. And for some reason, you can't force yourself to cry, but you toss the pistol away, off in a direction so that you'll never find it again. And eventually, you hear the other sniper come running, the shotgun in his hands, and he stops when he makes out the two of you in the dark.

"You...?" 

"Yes." And you stand, and move your way towards the other man, tiredly.

"...Had to, I think."

"Shut up." You turn him around, and start to walk towards the RV again. And you take one last look at Scout-- make sure his eyes are closed-- and glance up at the sky. You trace out where he had been looking, and he was right. That was Aries. And then you force yourself to look away, shove your hands into your pockets, and mosey on up next to Barnaby in the dark, almost like a real apocalypse thinker would have.

You really did love him.


End file.
